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AN EPISTLE TO 
A CANARY 



BY 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1914 ' 

A^l rights reserved 



AN EPISTLE TO 
A CANARY 



BY 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1914 

^// rights reserved 






COIVKIGHT. 1914, 

By the MACMII.LAN COAIPANY. 
Published .M.'<y, 1914 



MAV27I3I4^ 



.1. rj. Otishinr C... — r..i wick & Smith C 
' J Norv<M..l. .Vt.■,^^., n.S.A. 



'C1.A374216 



AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 

[ The manuscript of the ensuing 'Epistle to a 
Canary' has not hitherto been printed, or even 
described. The verses, in the handwriting of 
the author, were preserved among the Browning 
MSS. until their dispersal after Robert Barrett 
Browning's death. Ihe 'Epistle' bears nh 
title, place, or date, but it is not difficult to 
reconstruct its historv with some exactness. 
There can be no doubt that it was addressed 
to Mary Russell Mitford's pet canary, from 
74 Gloucester Place, Portman Square, the Bar- 
retts' London house smce 1835. The acquamt- 
ance of Miss Barrett with Miss Mitford began 
in May 1836. Formal at Hrst, in a few months 
it ripened into a close and tender intimacy. 



2 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 

Late in January 1837, the country friend paid 
a visit, apparently her first, to 74 Gloucester 
Place, and saw the various pets, and the ways 
of the Barrett family, a knowledge of which 
seems presupposed in the * Epistle.' It was 
about this time that Elizabeth wrote her poem, 
*The Doves,' which was published in 'The 
Seraphim' of 1838, beginning 

My little doves have left a nest 
Upon an Indian tree. 
It is one of this pair of doves who is sup- 
posed to indite the epistle to Miss Mitford's 
canary. Both ladies expatiated in their corre- 
spondence on the merits of their 'dear pets,' and 
letters exist in which they have sentimentally 
exchanged canary-feathers. Miss Mitford 
boasted herself a 'complete bird-fancier.' I 
think it possible that the present 'Epistle' may 



AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 3 

be connected with that * story of the Doves' 
which Mary Russell Mitford acknowledges 
in a letter of February 22, 1837. At all events 
the * Epistle' must be earlier in date than Au- 
gust 16, 1837, when Elizabeth Barrett an- 
nounced that *a new little dove had appeared 
from a shell, over which nobody had prognosti- 
cated good.' It is incredible that, if so thrill- 
ing an occurrence had already taken place when 
the 'Epistle' was written, no mention should 
be made of it by the enthusiastic parent. 

The poem is one of many loose and pleasant 
private missives in verse which Miss Barrett 
indulged in during those early years. It is 
valuable from the information it gives about the 
household at Gloucester Place, the birds, the 
dog Myrtle, William the butler, the shrouded 
and limited existence of the poet, with its win- 



4 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 

dows wide open to the horizons of the imagina- 
tion. — Edmund Gosse.] 

Dear unknown friend, esteemed Canary ! 
I've read your letter sent by Mary. 
I've read it with sufficient pleasure 
To draw a joyous choral measure 
From all the birds in Vallombrosa, — 
A place you've heard of, I suppose, Sir. 

My Spouse and I accept the honor 

You put upon me and upon her, 

And here with equal cordiality 

Return our friendship's mutualit}^ 

It is indeed a high communion, 

When hearts of birds can meet in union. 

And mine beneath my wing is beating. 

Just like a lark's, the sunshine greeting. 



AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 5 

To think that I, whose sun's a masked one, 
Have still your friendship to be basked in; 
That I and my companion, fated 
To be for aye expatriated. 
To sit at London windows, viewing 
For fair green hills, the human ruin, 
Hearing, for river-songs, wind-catches, — 
*01d clothes, old clothes,' and 'Buy my 

matches,' — 
Should still have friendship's sweet assistance 
From songful spirits at a distance. 
For here is human friendship only, 
And Mrs. Dove and I are lonely; 
And tho', on seasons out of number. 
We're kissed by human Hps to slumber; 
And tho' we feel caresses loving 
Drawn round our eyeUds, without moving — 
And nestle upon hands, confidmg, 



6 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 

As if in forest-shadows hiding; 
And even condescend to show us 
Obedient when some tongues speak to us ; 
Yet, after all, this human love. 
Dear Sir, what is it to a Dove ? 
It is not quite as cruel, truly, 
As I did think, (I own, unduly,) 
When first the dreadful reasoning creature 
Surprised me in the hush of nature ; 
But still 'tis poor and sad, half folly, 
Half wildness, and whole melancholy ; 
And if we were not near each other. 
We should have only you, my brother, 
To keep our spirits from dejection. 
While darkened so with man's affection. 

And now, dear brother-friend, Canary, 
It seemeth to me necessary 



AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 

To write a portrait of the being 
You deign to value without seeing; 
That, having read it, inartistic 
As it may be, and egoistic, 
You may attain a clearer notion 
Of one who loves you to devotion. 

My feathers, — do not think me proud, — 

Are colored faintly as a cloud, 

A fair brown cloud at dawn of day, 

Which bears, within a golden ray, 

A secret kept, which all the way 

Shines out for joy. My feet are red, 

Contrastingly, as used to tread 

Bright sunset clouds, and thence retaining 

The colour of their crimson staining; 

My golden eyes may each have drawn 

A spark of hght from highest dawn, 



8 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 

Which glows and opens, as you view them, 

Till sunset reds are likest to them ; 

Nor marvel that I so have won mine 

Image out of clouds and sunshine, 

When ancestors of mine, above them, 

So often flew as Venus drove them. 

And on m}^ neck I still am wearing 

The yoke-mark, which their part was, 

bearing 
A fair light mark, my neck enringing, 
A rainbow out of darkness springing; 
I would not change it for your singing; 
Tho' certainly Anacreon's story 
Detracts a little from the glory. 
Saying she sold him 'for a song' our 
Grandsire, most insulting wronger ; 
But some, in dear esteem who hold us 
Declare she never would have sold us, — 



AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 

Not for an epic, whose aroma 
Was all of amarynths and Homer. 

Enough ! No peacock's tail, a glowing 
Upon earth's darkest dust bestowing, 
Is swept by me (my tail partaketh 
The universal shade she maketh !) ; 
And yet with such a graceful motion 
I rise and stoop like waves on ocean, 
I hear applied what one expresses 
About 'majestic lowlinesses.' 
A sudden fear, reflection raises, — 
*What will he think of these self-praises ^ 
But, dear kind friend, we birds inherit 
No mounting and immortal spirit ; 
Our souls are our fair forms, and we do 
More glory in them than men need do. 
Yet beauty is not all, nor doubt me 



lo AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 

(In naming other things about me), 

I am too modest e'er to quarrel 

With such as you for music's laurel, — 

I mean for science ! All my chanting 

Was learnt from winds and waves descanting ; 

A solemn sweetness is its feature, 

A sad slow monotone of nature, — 

The fall of dew and leaf resembling 

So much, it sets my bosom trembling 

With a soft memory-passion, mourning 

For things to which is no returning. 

Alas ! alas ! what am I doing ? 

I break into a sudden cooing — 

Forgive me ! tho' myself affected, 

I w6uld not make my friend dejected. 

And seriously considered, cages, 

Tho' portions of the iron ages. 

Are not, for all their wires, to shut us 



AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY ii 

From man}^ true delights that suit us. 
For all their iron wires, they loose us 
To our * adversity's sweet uses'; 
And I myself am quite aware of 
A deepened inward sense, a care of 
More intellectual things, than found me 
With only woods and skies around me. 
For instance, what imagination 
Of bird, at large in the creation, 
Tho' wont in flights sublime to risk it. 
E'er reached a vision of white biscuit ? 

To balance this, I own at present 
Some circumstances are unpleasant, 
And the associates I am able 
To mix with, are exceptionable; 
There is a little dog whose name is 
Myrtle ! Oh, that aught so famous 



12 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 

To doves and Venus as that tree is 

Should lend its name to such as he is ! 

But so it is, and, speaking justly, 

This Myrtle's neither fierce nor crusty, 

A poor dull worthy dog, reposing 

All day beside the fire, with nose in 

The rug, and eyes half shut, which show them 

Properly meek, whene'er we do them 

The honor of approaching to them. 

Yet this same Myrtle (will you credit 

The monstrous statement when you've read 

it?) 
With insolent afFrontery, hath in 
The water placed for us to bathe in 
Immersed his nose, and fall'n to drinking. 
As if a common fountain-brink on ; 
And this offence has been repeated 
Twice, thrice or four times, and we meet it 



AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 13 

With proper indignation, springing 
Towards him with a martial singing 
In our wings, and fiercely wave them 
About his head, who dares not brave them. 
But walks away, retiring slowly, 
To show he is not servile wholly ! 
A worthy dog, in his totality, — 
Tho' wanting tact and ideality. 

Then there's a parrot with its staring 
Black eyes, and insolence past bearing ; 
Our own compatriot, (Cain was Abel's, 
As heard our grand-dame 'mong the cables 
Of Noah's ark,) and green, most vernally 
As if our tropic woods eternally 
Had stained his wmgs, without bestowing 
The calmness their deep heart is knowing 
For she is full of stir and meanness 



14 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 

More anxious after blue than greenness; 

Her native screechings trans-atlantic, 

Commingling with a slang pedantic 

Of ^what's a clock ?' (Degenerate folly, 

A bird take note of time!!) or 'Polly 

Put on the kettle' or 'Water Cresses'!! 

I name with horror these excesses, 

And feel, from inward indignation, 

I would not stoop t' articulation 

Not even of Greek, — tho' tempted sorest, — 

Not for a green nest in a forest ! 

This parrot habits, as is proper, 

A lower room, and we, an upper. 

And neither of us often views her 

Except when people introduce her, 

And then, dear friend, you'd really wonder 

To see how she would keep us under, — 

As if, besides her linguist powers, her 



AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 15 

Tail was twice as long as ours are ! 

Devouring all our seed, or wasting — 

Objecting even to our tasting. 

Of course we would resist but (praise me !) 

High-tree-born birds have delicacy — 

And then — and then — if I must speak, Sir, 

She has, besides her eyes, a beak. Sir ! 

My own compatriot, with such candour 

Being portrayed, acquit of slander 

My true opinion of another, 

Whose honor 'twas, to call you brother; 

Canary was he, even as 3^ou are, 

Tho' his accomplishments were fewer. 

A pretty, sprightly bird, that never 

Reflected, hopping on for ever 

With more of volatile giration 

Than could deserve my admiration. 

My spouse, myself, and Myrtle, eyeing 



i6 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 

B}^ turns, and sometimes even prying 
Into m}^ nest, — which was most trying, — 
Was! is not. He is gone ! one morning, 
He flew whence there is no returning 
Beyond the opened panes, — to hie him 
Where human kind could not come nigh 

him. 
Well ! peace be his ! may he have rested, 
Where every bird is music-breasted. 
Where shines the sun on Ax or Yarrow, 
United to some gentle sparrow. 

And now, dear friend, I must pursue mine 

Account, by noticing the human. 

May you, the generous fates have brought, 

where 
Are none who don long coats and short hair. 
But if, of those dread beings, any 



AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 17 

Are near you, near to me are many ; 
And we may speak of griefs resembling, 
In friendship's sympathetic trembling. 
Alas ! dear friend ! what awful noises 
They make with footsteps and with voices ! 
With what a clashing laugh they tease us ! 
How roughly by our tails they seize us ! 
And, in our sweetest chantings, cry out 
(Have they no ear for music ?) * Quiet ! !' 
There's one, — I think they call him Wil- 
liam, — 
A hawk's or vulture's soul must fill him ! 
For every day he's sternly able 
To lay a red cloth on the table - 

And then a white one, Hke the lightening 
Flashing wide ! It is too frightening ! 
Our very senses seem retreating. 
And reall}^, — we can't go on eating, 
c 



1 8 AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 

You'll wish that he would come this minute. 

To end a scrawl with so much in it, 

And so, farewell ! You will not wonder 

That metre-rules Tve written under; 

Creation's self's a poem, written 

In lovelier rhymes than I have hit on ; 

And I was taught b}^ winds pathetic, 

Thro' shaken woods, to be poetic. 

Besides I sit, — perhaps you know it ? — 

Close to a human feeble poet ; 

And tho' her verse is very wanting 

In all that beautifies my chanting 

Yet still she learns in nature's college, 

And has a little sound dove-knowledge; 

And I confess, — now don't discover 

I condescend too much, — I love her ! 

At least you'll pardon me, Canary ! 

You love a human thing called Mary ! 



AN EPISTLE TO A CANARY 19 

Farewell ! we are not of one feather, 
Yet surely would agree together, 
And, tho' apart, believe the love 
You're held in by 

your faithful 

Dove. 
P.S. 
I'm very glad 3^ou've heard of Bella. 
You'd hear but good, were / the teller ! 
Had I an eagle's sky-dominion, 
I still would let her stroke my pinion. 

Elizabeth Barrett Barrett. 

[The Manuscript of 'An Epistle to a Canary' 
is now in the collection of Mr. Edmund Gosse.] 



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